Immortal at Trial
by TobyWong
Summary: An immortal is caught and charged with murder, and the laywer that has wanted to kill him for 200 years must defend him.
1. Chapter 1

(FOREWORD: I am neither an attorney nor a student at any American law school. However, I am undergoing the course of studies for a law-related degree. It is that way that I have learnt what little I know of the vast legal world. Upon said (minute) knowledge, and some legal thrillers (either books, TV series, and movies), I have created this fiction.)

Chapter I: THE ARRAIGNMENT 

The City of New York. The city Frank Sinatra immortalized in his song, and the same place where the bulk of the American stock trading takes place. It is also a dangerous place. Thieves, robbers, rapists and murderers. If caught, all these are sent to court. Like Darren Jones, who held a smirk in his face as the Honorable Judge, a plump African-American in his late thirties and a dark scowl named Eugene Young, took his place.

A brainless bailiff uttered the name of the accused as everybody sat down, save the mentioned person, who remained up. The Judge skimmed through a paper that was surely Jones' file. "You are charged with murder. How do you plea?"

Murder. Yes. Jones had murdered a man. He had used a sharp sword to behead another man. That was the short version, of course. The longer version would have to include the fact that Darren Jones was immortal. He would live forever until someone took his head, and then something known as the Quickening would take place. Secret fights where one dies and loses his head would have to be revealed. He was not 30 as his documents claimed, but better than seven hundred. He was not American, but German. The sword was a scimitar older than he truly was. He was not even named Darren Jones. But they had the upper hand in the matter, so why bothering?

"I don't have an attorney." He said with a calm, soft voice.

"Can you afford one?" the Judge asked levelly. Jones shook his head. "Then let's find you one." He addressed the crowd witnessing the arraignment. "Is there any public defender here?"

The room was plunged into silence by those words. Jones smirked as he glanced backwards. He knew that no attorney would be stupid enough to get involved in a murder case in which the defendant was as guilty as hell. Eventually, he would be allowed to defend himself and he would manipulate the truth without worrying about stupid mortal lawyers. His eyes posed on the Judge and remained there coldly examining him. They only twitched slightly when he saw the justice motion at somebody in the crowd. He turned, wondering who was the courageous, albeit stupid, mind that would try to get him out of prison...

-----

Standing up from the seat nearest to the door, Stephanie Lancroix put down her skirt. She held her briefcase as her tiny figure moved sultrily through the aisle towards the judge. She wore a beige suit over a barely buttoned white shirt that allowed a good shot of her rounded yet small breasts. Her tight beige skirt highlighted her firm rear, which she bounced rhythmically as she paced. She caught a glimpse of some heads turning to stare at her. She smiled at that and her teeth were the whitest anyone would have ever seen framed by a shiny curly light brown hair and an unblemished pale skin. She liked the attention over her body. It gave her more control over the others than she should have.

"You are...?" The Judge asked curtly.

"Stephanie Lancroix, your Honor. From Hunt, Laver & Johnson." She said as she let out a flashing smile.

"This man cannot afford your fees, counsel." The Judge scowled at her for a second. She was ready for that reply.

"I work in the pro bono division. And given there is no one else willing to defend Mr. Jones, I would like to do it."

The Judge stared at the file again, evidently thinking about it. Stephanie clenched her free hand. She wanted this opportunity. She had graduated only six months ago and her mother had got her a position in Chet Johnson's law firm. The big shots had yielded finally to her continuous pleas to be sent to court to fetch a case. A big one in her first day would look good.

"All right, Ms. Lancroix, you'll be entered as his counsel of record. Plea?"

"Not guilty. I'd like to request he be released on bail." She spat up almost instantly.

"Request denied. Would you like to talk to him?"

"Right away." She said firmly.

"Mr. Zib, arrange that." The Judge told the big bailiff in custody of Jones. "Good luck, Ms. Lancroix. Next!"

Stephanie smiled and turned to see the face of her client. Jones was staring at her with indifference. She contained her surprise. Men usually regarded her with interest in her physical attributes, or at least kindly, given her beauty. His client was a queer fish she would have to work on.

-----

Stephanie closed the door and took a look around. It was a small room, in the center of which there was a table and a chair on each side of it affixed to the floor. Darren Jones, cuffed to one of the chairs, was sitting, glowering at her. Only then she had a chance to scrutinize him. Jones was a medium-height man, not well-built but not skinny either. He had short black hair and brown eyes. His nose was bigger than the average, and in his mouth she could see a tiny smirk on one of the sides. She grinned at this, wondering if he had eyed her up and down when she closed the door. She sat down in front of him and took out a legal pad. She leant closer to the table to write, allowing her breasts to be more available to his eyes.

"You always play with men like this?" he suddenly asked. She looked up startled.

"Pardon, sir. What do you...?"

"You behave like a cheap whore, luring men's attention with tight clothes and showing your stuff... how old are you?"

"Twenty-five," she stammered.

"Oh." He smirked mockingly. "I wonder how many... oral assignments you had to do to graduate so quickly."

Stephanie's face reddened. She felt insulted. Her parents had paid her entire university tuition in Stanford. She had studied thoroughly for every exam and had graduated first in her class. Never had she done what he was suggesting yet she admittedly had used revealing clothes for those exams with male teachers and complicated issues. The teacher would have his eyes gladdened and be nicer with the final grade.

"You're attacking me. I'm trying to help you." She mumbled as she stood up to show who wore the trousers there.

"You can't help yourself." He grinned with an expression of irony. "I see it now. You're a repressed girl who spent her life studying and now show off your body to gain control... when you're dying for a man to touch you."

She froze at his words. She moved her mouth to speak but no words came out. For the first time since she could remember, she closed her shirt. A shiver ran through her back. She felt naked. She opened the door and walked out, passing by the bailiff without saying anything.

She left the courthouse and hurried into her shiny Toyota van. Her hands trembled as she tried to put the key in the ignition. Within seconds of looking at her, the man had learnt her secret: she had refused all the guys that had tried to date her and to that day, she remained vestal. Halfway through law school, she had adopted the facade of the steamy chick, made up by looking up to her mother, to avoid being picked on. Somewhere since then, she had lost herself into her character. She cursed before fitting the key. She stepped too heavily on the accelerator and nearly crashed a car parked nearby. Slowly, she made her way back to the firm.

-----

"You did what?!"

Stephanie was sitting in the office of Roger Laver, the most senior lawyer inside the firm and the only partner available. Her legs trembled and her eyes were moist. Laver was fluttering and fidgeting around her. She had just been lectured very loudly. He had even yelled and spoken profanities against the judge for allowing her to represent Jones.

"I thought... I..."

"You thought what?! You're new into this, remember? Greenhorn, newbie, rookie, how do you want me to put it?" he grunted. "Not only it is unfair that you take advantage of the want of attorneys to represent him, it is also a lack of respect to your client! You were told to go for small cases!"

She could not hold anymore and gave way to many teardrops. This calmed down Laver a bit. He sat on his desk in front of her and regarded her with his blue eyes behind thick glasses. He smoothed his white curly hair before leaning closer to comfort her.

"I'm sorry..." she sobbed.

"Done is done." He said as kindly as possible. "Now you're his counsel. Withdrawing now would make us look bad so you'll have to be there. But..."

"But what?" she asked, still shedding.

"We will have to get help. Very good help." He let her go and went to his big chair where he plopped. "Go do your job, dear. I have work to do."

_[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Eugene Young was the character played by Steve Harris in "The Practice._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II: THE IMMORTAL ATTORNEY 

_Buenos Aires, Argentina._

_A year later. _

Inside a restaurant-disco in the most expensive area of the City, _Puerto Madero_, Dylan Hunt was eating a pizza as a stunning brunette delighted his eyes from the dancefloor. He was not the only one. At least three other men had their eyes on the woman. He took a mouthful and looked away, startled by something going on at the door.

A man in a neat suit was arguing with the security guards. He smirked and moved towards them, with the piece of pizza still in his right hand. The man pointed at Dylan and argued that he was there to see him.

"He's come to see me, gentlemen." Dylan said. The guards relaxed and let the man in.

"Robert, so good I could find you." The other man mumbled quickly.

"What was so important that you couldn't wait till tomorrow?"

"This."

The man produced the night edition of the Buenos Aires Herald and held it by the upper part of it, allowing a large headline to be read by Dylan. The news was about the son of a Senator that had been recently acquitted of the rape of a high school student. The kid had been found dead in the street, with a large wound in his chest. The coroner stated that the wound was inflicted by a sword.

"Oh." Dylan said casually as he ate more pizza. "So?"

"You had nothing to do with it?" the man asked accusatorily.

"Me?" Dylan smirked. "Why?"

"I know you were pissed off because you could not get him in jail. But this is the legal profession, we win, we lose. I saw you talking to those thugs you know when you left the courthouse."

"You're implying that I, a prominent lawyer in charge of a branch of one of the most important law firms of the world, had someone killed because... " a smile covered his face "... I lost a trial?!"

"I didn't say so." The man stared exasperated. "I thought you had to know... I'll see you tomorrow, Robert."

The man left. Dylan overheard someone saying "Fucking crow" and grinned as he finished his pizza and went back to his table to have more, and to continue enjoying the view in the dance floor. His colleague's suspicions were on the right track. The thugs the guy had mentioned were the sons of a Sicilian formerly connected to the Mafia, who had tried to establish their own (legal) business in Buenos Aires. But the competition framed the eldest of them with murder. Dylan saved the man, and the Sicilians were forever in debt with him. He had talked to them, in order to keep them out of the way. The rapist was his, and his was.

His cell phone rang. He wondered who could be calling at 2 AM. Hello, sorry, courthouse opens at 8.

"Yes?" he asked as he moved to an area not so pervaded by the music.

"Mr. Robert Spada?" a voice on the other side spoke with alteration.

"Who is this?" Whoever it was, he had obviously got the number from his secretary. And his secretary never gave the number to anyone that was not important.

"This is Roger Laver, from the main branch."

Roger Laver! He had not seen the big fish in twenty years. They had been through law school together and they had built the big firm. Later, he had left Laver and another attorney in charge and fled before his aging -- the want of it -- became too noticeable, hiding under a new identity as the big shot in charge of the Buenos Aires branch of the firm.

"May I help you in any way, Mr. Laver?" he spoke levelly.

"I was hoping to find Dylan Hunt. I've been looking for him for almost a week."

_Gee, problems_. He had found his calling in the legal world a century and a half ago. Every twenty years, he had to retire, change identities, and attend to law school elsewhere, to later build up a new law firm. In his previous life he had used his true name, Dylan Hunt. And it had been then when he had made more monies than in all his lifetimes. For that reason, he remained connected to the firm with a new name. He should have known this would happen eventually.

"You won't find him... Dylan Hunt died a couple of years ago. Lung cancer." He said detachedly. Big lie, he thought. He hated tobacco, and Laver knew it.

"Oh..." the voice on the other side broke. "My... it's terrible news... I was needing his help in a case."

"Which, if I may know?" Roger Laver was many things: temperamental, irascible, cut-off. But he was also an excellent attorney. Why would he need help in a case?

"It's a case... he tried successfully one in the past... I..."

Oh, so it was one of those cases he had won. Dylan tried to figure out which it was. Was it the one of the rock star chased by the IRS? Or maybe the one of the massive oil company that had had to pay ten figures check for several tortious activities? Perhaps it was the monopoly suit against NADT. No, it was surely the one of the murder: the wife charged with the assassination of her millionaire husband, when it had actually been the butler, lover of the decedent.

"Which one...? He left a record of his cases." He asked subtly.

"The State v. Walken."

"Beheading."

The reply was sharp. Dylan lost his breath for a second. Immortals were involved. Alan Walken was at a bar when another immortal appeared. They went to an alley, fought and he won. He was caught when leaving and charged with murder. Dylan had used self-defense as an argument, basing on the fact that Walken was a respectable member of society and a loving father of two adoptive children. Everyone spoke highly of him, and there was no doubt that he was a fine man. So fine that Dylan forked out the twenty-five thousand the civil court had sentenced Walken to pay.

"Yes... but I will have to work it without him."

"Look... there might be someone I could send you." Dylan stopped to have a sip of Coke. "Dylan Hunt Jr. He's a smart kid and it's the most amazing lawyer I've ever seen after his old man."

"The son? Any help can be useful."

"He'll be sent right away."

"Thank you, Mr. Spada."

"It's Robert, Roger. Good night."

He closed the phone. He would have to play Dylan Hunt II in order to help Laver. He would return to New York after twenty years. And he would know what was so important. For if Laver needed his help, it would only mean one thing: the accused was a piece of scum for whom self defense would not work. It might be interesting, he thought as he returned his eyes to the dance floor. The brunette was gone. Too much for a night, he thought.

_[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Puerto Madero (Madero Port) is located in the downtown area of the city of Buenos Aires, in the Port, where nowadays there are more restaurants than ships. It is indeed (unjustifiably) the most expensive area of the City. The word "cuervo" ("crow" in English) is used pejoratively to refer to an attorney who is more interested in making money than in helping their clients._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III: THE RETURN **

_New York, NY. _

_Two weeks later. _

Dylan Hunt got off a taxi at the entrance of Hunt, Laver & Johnson. He regarded the old-fashioned building with nostalgia. He had bought that building in the early forties, and bequeathed it to his posterior selves over the years. Letters engraved in copper over a white wall told of the firm's presence. Other than that, it seemed an old residential building.

He announced himself with the security guard and the man, a hulk man in his early thirties, stared in shock. Dylan Hunt should be at least sixty by now. Once the guard learned that he was "the son", he was let him in. Dylan entered the elevator, which was the same he had used when he left the firm in 1985, only days before a "headhunter" began to stalk New York. He pressed the button that led to the fifteenth floor... where his office had been. Once there, he eased out.

"Hello, I'm Dylan Hunt. Mr. Laver is expecting me." He said to a cute blonde as he flashed a white smile.

"Oh, yes." She said, obviously charmed. "This way, please."

She stood up and he got a full view of her. A small woman with a short skirt and a sexy pair of legs that could make his imagination run. He watched them move before following the girl. He went past rows of boxes where the youngest lawyers eyed him with intrigue and the elder ones with surprise. He kept a poker face as he realized how much change the firm had underwent in the last twenty-five years. He was shown into the office of Roger Laver and the secretary left.

"Holy Christ, you're identical!" Roger Laver was approaching him as he thrust furiously his hand. Dylan shook it firmly. Laver offered him a seat and sat down in front of him, an almost barren desk between them. He had aged well. His hair was still there in a white version, he had not gained a lot of weight and his glasses were as thick as he remembered. Roger stared baffled for a second. "You are... exactly like him."

"Yes... Dad used to say so." He said, seeming embarrassed, which was true to the degree that he felt patronized by someone ten times younger than he was.

"Well, I don't think there's time to chat about your old man now, so let's get to business." He pressed a button in the phone and picked the tube, speaking words in a very low voice. He hung up.

"What's the trial about?"

Laver fixed his glasses and sighed. "A man beheaded another. I know it sounds like something from the Middle Ages but it's just like that. He was arrested and charged. A new associate committed the stupidity of claiming his representation before the judge. Every time she meets him she returns weeping." The door was knocked. "Come in!"

The door opened and Stephanie Lancroix walked in. She wore long loose trousers and a tee shirt that left everything to imagination. There were bags under her eyes that the little make-up she used could not hide. Her hair was strongly tied in a ponytail. In her left hand she held a folder. She offered the other hand humbly to Dylan when introduced and sat down rather dejectedly beside him.

"You are the counsel of record?" he asked kindly.

"Yes..." she sounded cracked and insecure.

"Which are the facts?"

She produced a videocassette from inside the folder and handed it to Roger, who moved to his left and put it inside a video player. A screen Dylan had not noticed was turned on and the black and white images began to play...

_The camera clock read 23:32. It was February 10, 2006. It was a garage in which two cars, an old Porsche and an old Thunderbird, could be seen. From the upper-left corner a silhouette appeared, wielding a large sword. From the upper-right, another person showed up drawing a curve sword from under a khaki raincoat. They engaged into battle. Blow coming, blow going. The first man was going badly and was promptly disarmed. He tried to punch the other but failed and ended up on the floor. He extended his hand forward in an evident prayer for mercy. The other struck at him, taking his head off. Then bolts of lightning erupted from somewhere and the image died... _

Since the moment of the beheading, Dylan had fixed his attention on the fallen head. It did not appear to be someone he knew. He shot a glance at Stephanie, whose hand was on her chin as she leant on her elbows against the desk. Her eyes gave away concern and distress. His eyes moved to Roger who happened to be staring at him.

"As you can see, this is a very complicated case." He said.

"Don't forget the other evidence. The sword with his prints and the corpse's blood, the record of a threatening phone call... the DA will crush us." Stephanie said despondently. "This is a dead-end case."

"Not until the Judge rules." Dylan commented.

"That's all for now, Stephanie." Roger motioned her out. She nodded, grinned at Dylan and left. "That chick used to so lively, you know?" Roger sighed sadly. "Sparkling attitude, tight clothes to make you dream of cheating your wife, a funny way of mocking even me... that bastard drained it all from her in a year. She sobbed for an hour yesterday after meeting him."

"She should have stayed out."

"I should have watched her! I'm the big fish here. With Johnson in London crammed with all those malpractice suits against him, and your old man..." he stopped, measuring his words. "I'm supposed to be able to take care of things."

"Don't go so hard on you." Dylan uttered as he stood up. "Let me handle this. I think there might be a way out. Why now? Why not earlier?"

"Johnson said he would come, but the malpractice suits increased so he told me last week he wouldn't."

"OK. I'll visit our client. Mind if I borrow your associate?"

"Stephanie? Be my guest. Are you sure you'll cope? This is a case hard as hell. It would be even if your old man was here."

"Don't worry. I'm better than he was. Where can I find her?"

"Pro bono. Thirteen floor. There's some people there who might tell you something about your old man." He said with some disgust at the overconfidence this brat spoke with, apparently disregarding for the skills of his own dead father.

Dylan flashed a grin and left. He pushed the elevator button and waited for it. He wondered which of all the people he had met in his previous life would meet him, only to painfully remind him that age and loss of vitality would never touch him, but would creep up on mortals, slowly bringing them one step closer to death.

-----

The elevator doors opened and Dylan stepped on the thirteenth floor. He glanced around. There were tons of lawyers shuffling with piles of papers in their hands. He read a sign that read "Pro Bono". In his times, the pro bono division used a quarter of the third floor. Evidently, the firm had grown in the matter. He suddenly felt a pat and turned bewildered.

"Dylan Hunt, Jr?" a wrinkled man in his late sixties gazed with a smile.

"Yes..." he queried as he shook the hand of this person.

"I'm Peter Stephens. I'm in charge of this. Please follow me. We are expecting you."

Dylan followed the old man, who moved at a fairly good speed for his age, without any sticks or any other helpers. Stephens, now he remembered, had embezzled the firm in the late seventies to pay some gamble debts. He had three kids and two ex wives to support. Rather than firing him, Dylan assigned him a fixed sum of money sufficient to pay his dues and sent him to the pro bono division. The man surely had done a good job to remain there all that long.

Stephens showed him into a conference room where Stephanie Lancroix was sitting at the end of a table reading some papers. Next to her, at the head of the table, there was an attractive mature woman in her early fifties. She had natural blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and make-up covered most of the wrinkles she should have in her face. She stared at him as though he were a ghost. Dylan returned the glance with mock charm, though his insides were on fire.

"Carla Hayes, this is Dylan Hunt Jr."

Dylan shook the hand she offered gently and sat down next to Carla, opposite to Stephanie. Stephens plopped next to him.

"I'm told you're taking over." Carla blurted out.

"I'm here to help only."

"So, how does your kind heart would like to help?" she asked ironically. He felt the whip and smirked. Carla and him had been steady in his previous life. Before leaving, he had created a fictitious wife and a son that had heart problems. So Dylan Hunt moved to Buenos Aires to meet an expert, and open the branch of the firm there as well. He was shattered for doing that. She asked for a transfer to London. Never had he had the chance to apologize, and had he, he would not have found the exact words to do so.

"I'd like to meet our client." At his words, Carla glanced at Stephanie and Dylan followed his eyes. The young attorney looked terrified. Dylan hated himself for pushing forward but he was there for a reason. "Now." Stephanie stood up and stormed out of the room.

"She'll take you." Carla said. "Drop by later. I'd like to talk to you."

"Sure. Dinner at 10?" he said charmingly.

"Why not?" she replied curtly with disinterest before returning to her papers.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV: THE PAST 

The drive towards the Penitentiary was going silent. Dylan liked the van she drove but her driving was unsteady. They were always on the point of crashing.

"So... how is your mother?" he suddenly asked.

"What does she have to do with this?" she harshly said.

"Just asking. I met her when I was a teen."

"Fine, I guess. Travelling round Europe on Johnson's payroll. You bedded her?"

"What?! No!" Dylan spat up with false surprise. The Lancroix woman had a reputation in the legal world for cheating his spouse with any attorney that earned over a hundred grand. The stories on her husband were not better but at least were funnier. Dylan had indeed met her, but in 1982, a few months after Stephanie's birth, and had feigned well her advances.

"Rare. My mother likes young lawyers. And for what I could tell, you seem to like mature ladies."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw you staring at Carla... fondly." She mocked.

"She reminded me of someone." Dylan feigned to be uncomfortable. "That's all."

"Then why that question about my mother?" she asked harshly.

"You look like her." He commented kindly. Indeed, Stephanie was almost a portrait of her mother, when the old lady was young.

"I'm not a premium slut like her!"

Silence was convenient now. She was going mad and they were arriving at the penitentiary. The guard let them in and they eased off the car. She led the way to an office. Dylan felt bewildered when he sensed an immortal around. He did not remember any immortal that was working for the State. Stephanie opened a door without knocking and walked into an office, followed by a submissive-looking Dylan.

"Miss Lancroix." A well-built dark-haired man in a neat suit greeted her with surprise. "And the gentleman is?"

"Dylan Hunt."

"Son of the legendary Dylan Hunt, I assume. "The man spoke earnestly with a grin in his face. "Joseph Wingfield." They shook hands firmly. "Here to see your client?"

"Indeed." She sounded oddly assured and firm, unlike the nervous girl he had met at the firm. Women are always a mystery, Dylan thought.

"This way."

Wingfield dialed the phone and mumbled something. He hung up and they followed him through an aisle, then through a door that led to another aisle. They halted at a metal door guarded by two officers. Dylan sensed a presence on the other side of the door. He glanced at Stephanie, who was blinking nervously as she bit her lip. He put a hand on her shoulder and gripped reassuringly. She smiled back but he could see her fear.

The door opened and a cachinnation was heard. Dylan eyed at the immortal he was supposed to defend. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his fists. As the murderer broke into hysterical laughter, Wingfield let them in and closed the door. Stephanie stood frozen at the raging view of Darren Jones laughing. Dylan's brow began to sweat. He glowered at Jones, as the past suddenly slapped him hard in the face...

-----

_1807 _

Amid the Atlantic Ocean, a British-flagged ship sailed back home, the crew carrying defeat in their faces, and shame in their hearts. Dylan Hunt was in his hut, reflecting about life and death. He had seen too many soldiers perish in the battle against the Viceroyalty of River Plate, against Buenos Aires. What affected him more however was the vivid illusion he had had of his own death. For he was not sure it had been an illusion.

He was barely 23. He had left a wife in Oxford, embittered with the Americans that dared opposing the King. He wanted their blood to be shed, and he wanted himself to shed it. The killer instinct, however, died after the first day of battle. The throngs of soldiers sent back, wounded or dead, thus unable to present any combat, by the citizens weakened him. He was in the second line of attack when the second wave went forward to Buenos Aires. He had managed to kill a couple of men with pitchforks and was engaged in battle with a man with a saber when he felt his entire body burn. Someone had spilt a bucket of boiling water on him. He revolted in the floor, crying for someone to stop the pain, his skin shriveling and the bare flesh mixing with the mud. Then he heard a gunshot, an instant of pain and then... nothing. He would wake up in a pile of corpses, and he instantly felt a hand on his back telling him to stay quiet. It was strange, but not as strange as the astounding headache he had felt then...

He heard a knock on the door and someone entered. It was Commander Christopher Gashion, second in command on the boat, master of the troops in battle, and trusted man of Hope Popham. Dylan stood up and saluted.

"Rest, soldier." Dylan eased. "How is your wound?"

"Good, sir."

"It is?" Gashion asked suspiciously. "May I see it?" Dylan staggered back. He had tried to check the wound before and there was nothing to be checked. For there was no wound. "There's no wound, right?"

"Sir, I don't know why. I swear I was wounded. This is not cowardice!" Dylan excused himself.

"I know you were wounded. You were even killed but there's no trace of it."

"Pardon, sir?" The question came out with a trickle of disbelief.

"You are immortal, Dylan Hunt. Member of a special breed of humans that once they die violently, live forever afterwards, never aging."

Dylan thought that the defeat had sickened the man to the point of losing sanity. And Gashion was no young man. Wrinkles in his face revealed half a century of life, as did his long gray hair.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

"Nobody does at first. What you must understand is that immortality is a heavy burden: for we can die, however. When our heads and our shoulders part with each other, that is the end." Gashion spoke lowly and mellowly. "You will have to learn to defend your neck. But that will have to wait until we return home."

-----

Two months later, Dylan Hunt was back at Oxford. His wife had welcomed him with a big feast to which their closest friends attended. Dylan wanted to forget all about the battle, and above all, the dread the words of Gashion had caused him.

"You must sever all bonds with your mortal life. For if you love your wife and friends, you shall do so. Immortals must fight each other. Remember there can be only one, and that last one will attain the Prize."

He had gotten away from the Commander once they arrived at the port. The lessons on self-defense had never taken place. He had retaken his job in the tavern of a friend. His wife also worked as a teacher. Life was slowly straightening back to normality.

Then one night, while he was having dinner, he felt the bad omen tinkling painfully in his head. The words of Gashion once more reached his mind.

"The pain in your head is an omen. Whenever you feel it, try and find an isolated place, if you are to fight that immortal, or shelter in holy ground, because that is the only place where immortals are prohibited from killing."

He glanced at his wife. The beautiful Jane, a tender beauty of twenty-one springs. She regarded back with those blue eyes that were a beacon to him, hidden behind curls of red hair that shielded most of her face from the candle light. His eyes were struggling with pain.

"What is it?"

"I..." he whispered. Then the door was forced open...

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: The "Virreinato del Río de la Plata" was under the sovereignty of Spain. It was composed of what now are Argentina and Uruguay. In 1806 and 1807, two British invasions took place. Neither of which, eventually, succeeded.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V: THE CLIENT.**

Jones shifted in his seat, to accommodate his weight against the end of his coccyx, while his laughter decreased. Dylan's eyes bulged raucously for a second before a superficial tranquility took over. He sat down calmly in front of his client, while Stephanie neared a chair that was next to the door.

"Mr. Jones, I am assisting Miss Lancroiz in your defense. My associate has--"

"Associate?" Jones interrupted acidly. "Why not partner? Bed partner?"

Dylan smirked uneasily as he glanced at Stephanie. Her face had gone slightly pinkish and he could see her left leg was trembling. He returned to Jones and shook his head, grinning as if a very good joke had just been told.

"Miss Lancroix has requested my aide because the case is very complicated. You murdered a man, and you did it at cold-blood. He even asked for mercy, which you didn't grant."

"It was a fight for survival. Don't you know that... counsel?"

Dylan felt a surge of rage from within. The bastard should mince his words. Immortality was a secret to be kept. Even hinting it was not good.

"I wouldn't know... but beheading him?!" Dylan countered amicably, as if he were the District Attorney rather than the defense lawyer.

"Haven't we all done that?"

"Not me."

"Yeah, right. I bet you were too busy having your head... attended by..." Jones smirked. "Your associate."

Stephanie stood up suddenly. Dylan shifted his attention to her. She looked bewildered, and on the verge of tears. His eyes commanded his associate to control herself.

"I..." she stammered. "I need to go to the restroom."

She left the room under Dylan's complacent view. As soon as the door closed, he moved next to his client, reached out for Jones' tee shirt and clenched it furiously. His fist traveled all the way to the accused's face, halting right in front of it.

"Go ahead, Hunt. I know you want to." Jones giggled. "All these years..."

"Are you insane, Waingartner?" Dylan snapped out as he released him. "We are immortals. We have to remain in hiding. And you are hinting our existence just like that?"

"You overestimate your associate, Hunt." Jones sat straight. "She's naive. You should have seen her when she took the case. An overconfident slut. She's nothing."

"You'd better drop that attitude." Dylan returned to his seat and sighed out.

"Or what?" Jones grunted. "I'm facing life. I'm not going to spend a lifetime behind bars. I want out."

Dylan chuckled. "Out? Impossible. Not with that evidence."

"You got Walken out. You can get me out."

"Walken was a decent guy. You are scum of the worst kind." Dylan was leveling his voice now back to coolness.

"Yes, he was. Though the Quickening was puny. That would be one hell of a thing to tell the jury"

Dylan stood up and slammed his hands against the table. He contained the reflex he so desired to let go. "You... took Alan's head?"

"It's no feat, nothing I'm particularly proud of." Jones spat out nonchalantly. "But you will get me out, or I'll spill the beans."

Dylan sat down, feeling a cold sweat tripping down his back. Jones was serious about it. Until now, he had took it for bluffing. But now he had spoken the words, Dylan thought about the nasty implications it might have.

"No you won't."

"Yes I will, Hunt. How many of us will leave their prominent positions to lurk in the shadows, for fear of rejection or discovery?"

Dylan rationalized. Dropping out of an identity was nothing new for an immortal. It was a shattering experience most of the times. But he analyzed it from another standpoint. These people might have friends and families. People that would find themselves hurt and wounded, mainly because of the lack of confidence the alleged friend had in them, or because they would be rejected over their kinsmanhip with the immortal.

"And if you do that..." Dylan smiled for the first time, if forcibly. "I guarantee you will remain a lifetime in jail. And with the knowledge of immortality, they won't toss your corpse out at the first suicide you commit."

Jones didn't reply. The door behind Dylan opened and Stephanie returned. She had sobered up and regained some of the strange confidence Dylan had noticed when she addressed Wingfield.

Dylan stood up and straightened his coat. He shook his head at Stephanie to let her know they were leaving. She nodded with some sense of relief.

"We'll be meeting soon, Mr. Jones."

He opened the door and let her out. He gave one last glance at the man he so scorned before closing. Stephanie walked hurriedly out while he paced calmly towards the exit. He glanced at Wingfield on his way out. The man gave a meaningless look back.

They got back in the van and she started driving, this time more calmly and safely. He had to call Carla. Dinner at 10. He produced a cellphone he had been offered but realized he lacked something substantial.

"Stephanie... you have Carla Hayes' number?"

She glanced at him through the rear view. Her look was one of pleading, mixed with one of distress. _How troubled is this woman?_ He wondered.

"Call the office. You'll be patched from there."

Her voice was brittle and cracked. He noticed that, and she noticed he had noticed. Her eyes returned to the road.

"Stephanie, are you OK?"

"Yeah..." was her quick blurt.

"Really... what is it?"

She hesitated before speaking. "It's... I wish ... I... I wish I hadn't been so... stupid..."

"You took the case. Period. We can't go back. We live with our choices, and their consequences." _Don't I know that?_

"For you it's simple, isn't it? Your parents brought you up in comfort. You went to Law School, you graduated, and because you were Daddy's boy, you got your position! And no one is shoving that in your face."

The words lashed Dylan. It was not true. But he could not tell her that. Not without telling him of his childhood in an orphanage in London. Not without telling him of his death in Buenos Aires. Not without telling him... of Jane.

"You're letting your parents' shadow cover you." He replied calmly. "Your father was a decent DA. Your mother won more tort cases than I can remember, and all in trial. She seldom settled. They may have helped you getting to where you are, but from now on, it's up to you."

Dylan dialed the number of the office and waited as he glanced through the window. Stephanie glanced at him, ashamed of her words. How could have said that? She was accusing him of her own faults. She shook her head as she turned an avenue.

"Carla Hayes, please. Thanks."

"I'm sorry... I..." Stephanie stammered.

"Tsk. Don't worry about it." Dylan flashed a reassuring smile before returning his sight at the passing streets.

"Carla Hayes here." The voice on the phone called.

"Mrs. Hayes."

"It's Carla, Dylan." The voice came out girlishly.

"Carla then." Dylan tapped the fingers of his free hand against his leg, trying to calm down. His heartbeat had increased.

"How did it go?"

"It somehow went." Dylan replied flatly. "I recall you mentioned something about dinner."

"You did. You said 'Dinner at 10'. Do you know Cicero's"

"I'll find it. 10 o'clock?"

"Exactly. See you then."

Dylan left the phone but remained staring. Stephanie scrutinized him. He was good-looking and charming. But there was more. She had felt safe by him. He had made her want not to yield to Jones' arrogance and harshness. And at the same time, he had had a strange chemistry with their client. It was... almost as if those two had met before...


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter VI: THE DINNER

**Chapter VI: THE DINNER.**

At 10'o clock sharp, Dylan Hunt arrived at the French restaurant Cicero's. Dressed in neat Armani black suit and shirt, he was approached at the entrance by a French-looking hostess in her late thirties.

"I'm with Mrs. Carla Hayes."

"She hasn't arrived. This way please."

The hostess led him to a table nearby, from which the door was at sight. The place had not changed. Carla and him used to frequent it, often on Fridays for late-night dinners that would end up on either his or her bed. In all that time, he had never found out why a French restaurant had an Italian name.

"You're punctual."

He glanced up and his eyes widened. Carla Hayes was wearing a long green silk dress, with a revealing cleavage. He stood up, trying hard not to fix his eyes on the inviting sight before him. Despite being in her early fifties, her breasts remained firm, and he was certain there was no push-up bra helping there.

She sat down and so did he. She chuckled for no reason and waved at the garzon. He came.

"The best wine you have." She asked. She also ordered a dish which Dylan recalled having tried and liked, yet whose name escaped his bad French pronunciation.

The garzon nodded and left.

"You look good." She commented.

"So do you." He grinned.

"I know." The garzon returned quickly with a wine. He served on a glass and let her try. She savored it and approved. The man poured on Dylan's glass and left.

"It's an interesting place." Dylan tried to break the ice.

"It is. I've been coming here for almost thirty years."

There was something odd in her voice. Dylan could not figure out what.

"Really? That's a long time."

"Never is a long time for some things. To love, to hate..." her words trailed off as she downed her glass and served herself another.

"I guess so."

"So, how did it go?"

"He is a queer chap." Dylan replied. Carla folded her fingers in front of her face as he spoke and stared in rapture. "He evidently despises her. It is going to be rough..."

"I would imagine so. " She downed another glass and chuckled again. Now he knew what was so funny in her voice. She had already ingested some alcohol before coming and now she was intaking more. She was on the verge of drunkenness, if not drunk already."But I'm referring to something else."

"Else?"

"What was it like to meet Lothar Waingartner after almost two hundred years?" His lungs closed, his breath edged, his heart pounded madly at her question. His brain raced quickly, searching for a way out, for a way to counter that irrefutable, undeniable overt statement. "What is it? The legendary Dylan Hunt can't come up with a rebuttal?" Dylan's face mutated into a mask of disbelief and Carla burst into a wild, drunken laughter that drew the attention of some diners. She controlled herself and placed her hand on her mouth as her mood subsided and her voice became almost a whisper. "Yes, yes, yes, Dylan. For some time I've known there's no wife and no son with heart problems. I've known that you are better than two hundred years old, and overall, that you can't die until your head falls."

Her eyes rested on him. Dylan felt his blood freeze and his heart shrink. All that he had wanted to tell her, she already knew. All that he could have explained was needless of an explanation now. There was only one thing he could still give her.

"I'm sorry."

Carla's eyes sparkled and watered. The confident attorney gave way to the lonely woman, whose lips struggled with the pain of years before. She blinked repeatedly and a single tear streaked down her left cheek, her sight never leaving him.

"It doesn't matter... anymore..." she spoke painfully.

"How do...?"

She removed a broad bracelet she wore in her left wrist and showed him a tattoo. "I joined an organization known as the Watchers. We've kept tabs on all immortals for thousands of years. Like you, we remain in secrecy."

The Watchers? He had never heard of them.

"And why...?"

She suddenly forced a smile at the coming garzon. The man was just doing his job, and they were there to eat after all, Dylan considered. He left the dishes and wished them _Bon Apetit_ before leaving them.

"Because I can't explain this otherwise." She produced a file and handed it to Dylan. "Don't go through it now. It contains the bio and other stuff about the immortal Waingartner killed. His name is Igor Troliev." He noticed her voice was firm and confident again, but kept quiet about it.

"That still doesn't explain why..." He halted. There was an immortal around. His hand instinctively went down to the insides of his coat and grazed the hilt of his rapier. His eyes began to wander around. "Carla, I..."

"Let me guess. An immortal is here. You needn't do the Clark Kent routine with me. Maybe that guy over there?" she said funnily, pointing at the door.

Joseph Wingfield was at the entrance, speaking with the hostess. Dylan stood up. Carla winked at him and he grinned back. He moved towards them. Wingfield nodded and they both left silently. They treaded toward a nearby dead end, into which they penetrated, obscurity and darkness engulfing both of them.

"Joseph Wingfield, wasn't it?" Dylan asked.

"Yes."

"And what happened to my old friend Matthew McCormick?"

Wingfield approached. "We had cornered some suspects. They resisted. A loose bullet pierced my belly. My friend the senator helped there."

Suddenly, the two men embraced tightly.

"You look good!" Dylan patted Wingfield's arm amicably.

"So do you... Junior."

Dylan chuckled. "Please, don't mock me with that."

"That Jones fellow is a tough chap, isn't he?"

"He is..." Wingfield's eyebrows raised at the darkness in Dylan's voice.

"Waingartner?!"

"And he is threatening to expose us all if I don't get him out."

"What?!"

"I told him he would rot in a jail till the end of times if he did. But I can't be certain he will keep quiet."

"I hope he is." Wingfield paused. "You're trying to start something again with...?"

"No, no." Dylan laughed. He opted to keep the Watchers out of the conversation. "She wants to talk about... Dad."

"I wouldn't blame you if you did."

"I bet you wouldn't. Anyway, I'd better return or she'll think..." _that you beheaded me "... _that I left her alone."

"Sure. We'll meet later on, Dylan."

"See you later... Joe."

Dylan returned to the restaurant. Carla was nowhere around. Only the folder remained there. The hostess approached with a smile.

"Miss Hayes excused herself. She paid already."

Paid? She knew that he hated she paid. He was certain of that. And he knew that she liked annoying him with that detail. She grinned as he thanked her. He left the place, feeling his stomach complaining about the food not taken. He was back in New York City. Nostalgia embarked upon him as he strolled calmly in the lonely night...


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII: PAINFUL MEMORIES.**

The following morning, Dylan opened the file in an empty conference room. He soon arranged its contents over the table and focused on the biography of the man who had been known to the Watchers as Igor Troliev.

He was a 1700-year-old Kurgan, hardly akin to his tribesman in terms of strength, skill or reputation. He had been quickly killed in his first battle and abandoned in the battlefield. Once reborn, an immortal found him and trained him.

Troliev had a repressed personality, which the years of immortality helped release and twist. In the seventeenth century, he developed a fancy for sadism and masochism. He began to like the senseless murder of mortals, especially children and young women. But soon that preference disappeared.

Irrelevant events followed up to the 1990's, and it was in that period when Dylan found information that triggered a spark of hope in him.

In 1993, Troliev began a series of murders in the New York area. He left messages for the investigators of the case. The two cops managed to trail him, just in time to prevent another murder. However, Troliev had a present ready for the youngest of them. The head of his wife, packed in a box. The detective shot him, ensuing expulsion from the force in the making and his posterior suicide.

Troliev fled from New York and did not return until 1998, when he started the killings again, leaving new messages for the current investigator, a policeman named John Prudhomme. Again, he did not hesitate in slaughtering the wife of the man, though he actually killed the sister-in-law instead. He added a new element: he murdered an FBI officer and replaced him, aiding in the investigation. Eventually, Prudhomme stopped him. However, Troliev returned for revenge, murdering the officer, his wife and their months-old baby.

He probably liked stalking cops, so he picked another. After murdering for two years, leaving mocking messages, he hanged his new prey's wife. The officer gave in to alcohol until he was taken to a rehabilitation center in Alaska. Troliev went there and, after much bloodshed, he was stopped.

He moved to Canada, where he nearly met death in a bridge at the blade of Steven Keane. However, the Irishman failed to behead him before Igor leapt to the river flowing underneath of them. Afterwards, he would meet Lothar Waingartner in that garage.

"Anything interesting?"

He looked up. Carla Hayes walked in, a slight excess of make-up the only evidence of a hangover, and any lawyer with half-wit would be able to rebut that accusation. She gave a bright smile to Dylan before kissing his cheek. The saddened woman of the night before had been an illusion?

"Troliev was a piece of scum."

"Yes, he was. And a bigger piece of scum got him," she replied, staring at him as she sat over the table.

Dylan stood up uneasily and headed to the coffee machine. He felt her behind him, her scrutinizing eyes examining the modern version of her old love. He poured himself a cup and offered her. She nodded with a teasing grin.

"Here you are."

He returned to the table and started reading again. She sat down next to him and drank while eyeing him. He noticed and grinned at first. Then he realized she was not stopping. He felt as if he was in the bus and some kid was fascinated with him for no particular reason.

"So... you like Stephanie?"

"Jealous?" he commented as he put aside the papers and sipped.

"You don't know how she was, do you?" She stood up abruptly. "Tight clothes, revealing shirts. More than once she brought no brassier under a white shirt on a scorchingly hot day..."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dylan blurted back.

"She was a slut, Dylan! A petite version of her mother, only that she probably affected men worse with her naive-wannabe attitude. And it was that bastard that told him."

"Carla... what is it?" Tears rushed to her eyes again, only this time they flowed freely. She took a seat and gazed for a second at him before hiding in her own crossed arms. Dylan watched her do so. She gasped and he nearly reached out for her. Bit he didn't. "Carla..."

She bobbed up her head and stared. "It's... " she sat uptight and wiped her face with a tissue she produced. "It's her fault. I... I had assumed the fact that you would... you would never... come back..."

"We can't go back in time and reverse it, can we? So we'd better deal with it."

"This is how you managed not to behead Waingartner when you met him? After what he did to your wife..."

The comment was unwarrantedly acid. Dylan blinked and retreated, the past slapping him again...

--

_Oxford, 1807._

A medium-sized man broke in abruptly, wielding a large broadsword. He glanced around wildly. Dylan leapt to his feet and grasped his battle saber and unsheathed it. He stormed forward at the unwanted visitor, who brutally delivered two lashes to the air, enough to make him back.

He considered attacking again, but his mind brought up a crucial fact in the matter. He had no knowledge of how to battle. He repented not having learnt from his commander. Regret made him remain a statue as the invader rushed towards him. Pain followed.

He found himself impaled against the wall, blood, his blood, choking him. He felt death slowly claiming every inch of him. His limbs began the surrender by going numb. His lungs followed, decreasing their activity. His heartbeat marked the beat of his defeat, which was slow and dolorous.

"Dylan!" Jane cried.

The bastard had seized her and pushed her against the wall. He fondled her breasts, to which she cried in shame. He produced a knife, which she used to stick her right hand against the wall, the arm spread upward next to her head.. Jane let out a shriek that shattered Dylan's sanity. The same happened to the left hand. Blood began to flow down her limbs, reaching her body.

"The clothes will stain." The visitor grunted wickedly. "I can't let that happen."

He ripped her clothes apart, revealing her abundant breasts. The blood reached them and continued its path down. The man guffawed madly.

"Son of a whore!" Dylan cursed with what little strength he still had.

"Shut up!"

The visitor produced another knife and tossed it at him. Dylan saw the blade coming nearer and nearer. He prepared himself for the pain. It was only a second. A cold kiss that paralyzed his senses, defeating all the resistance he had put up against the death that now embraced him...

_(AUTHOR'S NOTE: the events in the file are based on three movies, all of which have a similar storyline: "Se7en", "Resurrection" and "D-tox". I chained those events, making them the actions of a single immortal murderer.)_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter VIII: THE (NOT SO) INCOMPETENT.**

Stephanie Lancroix cursed herself as she read the sheet of paper. She liked to keep up with the latest inventions. She had a cellphone with Super VGA resolution for a built-in digital camera and it also worked as a palmtop. At home, she had a state-of-the-art personal computer, which she kept turned on all the time she was there. The computer at the office was not an obsolete machine, though, and she rummaged through her e-mail accounts in her spare time.

She should have remembered to check the old, seemingly out-dated means of communication. She glanced down at the end of the aisle, at the conference room where she knew Dylan Hunt was working in. He would not be pleased. More than that, he would be extremely annoyed and angry... at her. She paced towards there, knowing that if she were to endure his admonishment, she had better do it now. Wasting more time would be worse.

She walked in. The room was empty. On the table, there were piles of papers arranged. She moved closer and peered at one of them. It was a photograph of a man very similar to the murdered man. Only that this picture seemed to have been taken eighty years ago! What...?

"Stephanie." She turned awkwardly. Dylan was walking in, an inquisitorial glance in his eyes. No sooner did he get by her than he took the papers away, gathering them in a folder he stuck under his arm. "You wanted something?"

She put up the paper she had. Dylan took it and read it. His breathing increased and she knew he was not glad of that. He shook his head and began to fidget around, his mouth always about to spit out something but holding it back.

"Are you incompetent?!" he finally barked out angrily.

"I... I forgot to check... I..." she hissed.

Carla Hayes and Roger Laver walked in, discussing something. They stopped when they noticed Dylan in a furious mood.

"What happens?" Roger asked.

"Trial was advanced. It's... next week." Stephanie replied. "I forgot to check my mail."

"You were informed any change in schedule would be immediately operative and served by letter.." Carla admonished.

"It's a week old." Dylan blurted out, laughing nervously.

Laver only glanced at Stephanie. She bit her lips yet contained the tears. An almost motionless nod was the only admission of guilt she dared make.

"Anyway..." Roger sighed. "You'd better get to analyze the evidence."

--

The evidence the DA had gathered was vast. The core of it, though, consisted in the murderous weapon, clothes of the murderer stained with the victim's blood, and the security tape Dylan had watched before. They were on the latter.

Dylan frowned as he watched Darren Jones – no, Lothar Waingartner! – take the head of Igor Troliev after the pitiful plea for mercy. The Quickening began to unleash when the camera ended playing.

Over and over again. And there was nothing. Because there had to be nothing. There was not a single thing they could find to redeem him. Jones was guilty. He was a cold-blooded psycho. He had always been.

Carla shook her head and spoke as if reading his thoughts. "This is pointless. We've nothing."

"Indeed."

Dylan and Carla seemed concerned. Extremely concerned. Stephanie knew that this was her fault. She should have paid more attention and remembered to check if the secretary – the one that always received, with a power of attorney signed therefor, all papers served upon the firm – had any letter for her.

The secretary could not be blamed. It was customary within the firm – a custom that dated back to Dylan's father - that she left any incoming notices, communications, summons, letters, inter alia, at a row of shelves behind her, where each employee, associate and partner had a specific separate place for such papers. And the secretary need not remember. It was the lawyer's burden.

_Res ipsa loquitur_. She had screwed up. The facts spoke for themselves. She could not pin blame on the secretary. Just like the case. Jones could not blame others. There it was. It was so evident. Her eyes widened. Was it!?

She withdrew her eyes from the image and observed the television as a device. A tiny smirk posed on her lips.

"What if he didn't murder him?"

"What?!" Dylan's question was an exasperated one.

"I mean... " She stood up and went to the screen. "We have this. He killed him. No argument there. But we have this, what we see _here_." She placed her fingers on the still image of the sword-swinging Darren Jones. "What about before? What if the other guy provoked him, threatened him, maybe even forced him to fight?"

Carla and Dylan eyed at each other and returned their attention to Stephanie. "You're saying that," Carla hissed, "he acted under a spur of passion. You can't prove it for certain."

"You're right." Stephanie countered. "But neither can they. This guy could perfectly gunpointed Jones to fight. Maybe he was some creepo with a thing for swords and handed Jones the weapon to please himself. Turns out Jones went nuts and took his head."

Carla smiled. She got the idea. Dylan nodded dubiously. "I don't get you."

"Reasonable doubt." Carla nearly mocked.

"Spur of passion. Ten years maximum." Stephanie added.

He felt like an idiot. Basic knowledge lawyers had. He had been so focused on keeping the secret involving immortality that he had overlooked what he was: an attorney. He had also forgotten to behave as a detached protector of his client's interests. He had been so focused on his subjective knowledge that Waingartner was guilty that he had bypassed crucial things.

"It's a long shot... but we don't have anything else." He yawned. "I need to get some coffee."

"I'll get it." Stephanie chanted as she left, relieved after having been able to open a very small door that brought light into the darkness of the case.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Dylan mused.

"Very. But we might have figured out. But we do know what Waingartner... Jones really is. And we pondered that above all."

"I sense jealousy again." Dylan mocked charmingly.

She smiled softly. "Hey, I'm giving her credit. I said we might, not that we would."

Stephanie returned with three cups of coffee. Dylan wanted to know who the DA and the judge would be. He was not glad to learn it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter IX: COLD-BLOOD MURDER **

Dylan had not noticed how much he had missed the court environment in the United States until he walked inside the court. He felt a tiny sense of nostalgia gripping him. How many times had he walked inside one of those rooms, to defend his client?

In the defense procession, he was in a second row. Stephanie led the party towards their seats, wearing a neat navy blue suit, with a tight skirt that ended barely above the knees. A white shirt that should probably have had one more button buttoned completed her outfit. Dylan tried hard – unsuccessfully – not to glance at her waving hips.

To his left, Darren Jones moved coolly, a police officer flanking him. Jones was dressed in a striking expensive pink suit, a purple shirt and a white tie. Those attending to the trial contained laughs, and Dylan overheard someone saying who had purchased such an outfit. He also heard a sweet giggle coming from ahead. Stephanie had overheard too, and, guilty as hell, she was enjoying it.

They seated, Stephanie nearer to the alley, Dylan next to her, and Jones against the other corner of the table. She began to arrange the papers and Dylan caught a glimpse of her brassier through an opening in her shirt. He heard a harsh comment from the other side and turned. Jones was smirking with contempt. Dylan refocused and started his work.

The DA arrived soon. Dylan glanced at J. Clarence Adams III and could not suppress a grin. He remembered this attorney. Back then, Adams had been a blond man, and a cocky member of the team of the attorney general. He had had the bad luck of leading a trial against one of Dylan's clients.

He had stupidly argued that Dylan's client was guilty of murder because he had not been at the victim's house –where the corpse had been found - at the time of the murder. Thus, Adams ruined his own case himself. Easiest case and fee ever won in the firm's history. Laver had kept a newspaper picture of Adams in his desk ever since then till Dylan's departure. He did not even keep one of his wife and daughters. Would the picture still be there?

"The Honorable Judge Eugene Young." The bailiff announced.

Dylan observed how Eugene Young walked in, took his place, and scrutinized the whole room. The Judge's eyes skimmed over him and returned to fix. Their eyes met for an instant, Young's eyes inquisitorially, Dylan's meekly.

"Seems we have a new attorney." He grunted. "Mr. Adams, any objection?"

Adams shrugged as he glanced. He made a despective wave as he shrugged. "Another fish, Judge. Just another queer fish."

Dylan saw that Young had not liked that comment. When the Judge picked up his hammer, he knew what he would say...

"CHAMBERS! NOW!"

--

"You are..." Young's eyes shot daggers at Dylan.

"Dylan Hunt, Jr."

"Your presence is unexpected in here, counsel."

Stephanie and Adams were sitting opposite the Judge at his desk, while Dylan and Adams' assistant stood behind their partners. Young scowled at Stephanie.

"Mr. Hunt is assisting me in the trial. He's passed a specially-requested bar exam recently without problems."

"I figured out." Young stiffed up his lip. "How is your father?"

Dylan had taught Young in Criminal Law at Law School. There had been a good acquaintance. They had had some drinks afterwards. It was not a friendship, but there was a fair degree of mutual appreciation.

"He died two years ago. Lung cancer." Lies over lies. He had to maintain the original lie. But Young, just as Roger Laver, knew he hated tobacco. "Passive smoker."

"I see..." Young hissed dubiously. The large brown eyes left Dylan and posed angrily on Adams. The DA was about to get a verbal beating. "Mr. Adams... you shall address with respect. You shall not use terms as the ones you used before to refer to me, or to any person in this court ever again. Otherwise, you will be accused of contempt. Is THAT CLEAR?"

Adams gulped, sweat perspiring down the bald skin where blond hair once had been. Stephanie felt like laughing but she felt Dylan's grip gently on her shoulder, admonishing silently to resist the temptation.

Adams uttered an apology and Young dismissed them. The DA halted the defense as they returned. "You two don't stand a chance. He's guilty."

"Till verdict, Mr. Adams, he's not." Dylan countered.

"He murdered a defenseless man who begged for his life. No excuses for that. He's a cold blooded murderer."

"Be that as it may, counsel," Stephanie brushed past him, "prove it."

They took their seats, but Dylan went blank. The words Adams had spoken reverberated in his mind.. _He murdered a defenseless man_

--

Oxford, 1807.

Dylan Hunt woke up, feeling numb. He felt dizzy and bewildered. His head spun around. He tried to focus his eyes and spotted a familiar shape nearby.

"So you've woken up."

Christopher Gashion helped him up.

"What... ?" Memories returned slowly. "Jane... where is...?"

Gashion tried to stop him but he moved past. Dylan shrieked as he collapsed on his knees. He crawled towards the wall and caressed the corpse of his beloved, stained in blood, her bonnie face mutated in a fixed expression of horror.

"I know what you're thinking and don't even consider it." Gashion said coldly.

"Who was...?" Dylan stammered.

"His name is Lothar Waingartner. He is a savage. If you're considering hunting him, you'll fail." Gashion patted Dylan's back as he embraced the corpse of the woman he had loved. "You will need to learn what you refused to learn before. In three or four centuries, if you live that long, you might be ready for him."

"Won't you... do... anything?" Dylan cried.

Gashion slowly went towards the door. "No, he's too much even for me."

Dylan felt a surge of rage fuelling him. That Waingartner had murdered (and God knew what else) Jane. And this... Gashion refused to do anything. He simply told him to let it go. Dylan could not. He would not.

He stood up and grasped his saber, lying nearby on the floor. Anger pushed him forward as he stormed towards Gashion. He let out a sickening yell that caught Gashion's attention. The Commander's face stretched into a mask of surprise and shock. Dylan's arm sent the weapon against the neck of the stunned man.

The blade carved through the flesh till it hit the bone, which stopped it. Dylan felt pain as his arm shook with the recoil. He let the hilt go and the corpse fell to the floor. Rage subsided and he burst into sobs. What had he done?

He stared at the Commander. His eyes had gone blank, and blood was oozing abundantly from the wound. He checked the corpse and found a strange sword. It was the first of its kind he had ever seen. Its blade was large and very curve.

He raised his arms above his body and hammered against the neck. After three strikes, each of which splattered blood over his face and body, the head came off. He gasped and felt a disturbing sensation he could not discern.

He felt his lungs closing and his skin burning. Suddenly, a thunderbolt stemming from somewhere hit him. Another one followed. A dazzling light impaired his sight. He got one last squint before being totally blinded. It was Gashion's corpse... floating engulfed in a green glimmer. A strange power and energy seized Dylan. He screamed as never before. He was pained but at the same time, felt an enormous pleasure.

It went off all of a sudden. He fell on his knees. Power ran through his veins and, like a youngling introduced to sex, he wanted more. But there was a beating part of him that blocked such thoughts. He stood up and picked an unlit lamp. He coldly carried the corpses and dragged them to the bedroom.

He made them lay on the bed and sprayed them with the oil. He picked another lamp and tossed it against the wall. The oil flooded the room. He opened a drawer and stuffed its contents – Jane's savings – in a bag. He grabbed an oil container and washed the house with its content. Finally, he grabbed Gashion's sword, a coat and a lit lamp and walked out.

He gave one last sad glance at the place he had called home. Then he tossed the lit lamp inside. The place caught fire. He hid the blade within his coat and began his departure from that life. Dylan Hunt prayed fate let him accomplish his revenge. He knew hell awaited him afterwards...


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter X: WITNESSES**

After a week, the trial had proceeded smoothly. Both parties had exposed their positions, and neither side had gained any true advantage over the other. And now, the time had come for the few subpoenaed witnesses to appear. The District Attorney had none. The defense was about to begin interrogation with the first of them.

After having sworn on the Bible, Quentin Prudhomme shifted his weight in the seat. Dylan patted Stephanie's knee to wish her good luck as she stood up. She wore sober beige suit and trousers, more discreet and less striking than her client's, who remained the center of attention, for reasons other than his being the accused.

"Mr. Prudhomme, allow me to sympathize with your loss." She said, receiving a nod back from the witness. "Now, could you tell the jury what happened on the night of the sixth of January of 2001."

"I... My brother..." the witness spoke haltedly "... my sister-in-law, and my nephew were murdered."

"Objection!" Adams rose angrily. "Judge, this is irrelevant."

The Judge glared at him and then at Stephanie. "Miss Lancroix, I expect a reason for this gentleman to be sitting here today." He paused. "A reason related to this trial."

"There is, Your Honor." Stephanie went to the defense table and grabbed a file, from which she extracted a large photograph. She handed it to the witness. Prudhomme squirmed as he stared at the image before him. "Mr. Prudhomme, do you recognize that face?"

"Yes..."

"Now... could you tell the jury where were you in the night of the murder of your family?"

"My brother and I had been apart for some time, some quarrel over my calling. I am a priest. It was not until the New Century celebrations that we spoke again..."

"Irrelevant!" Adams barked from his seat.

The Judge glowered at Stephanie who waved in a sign for patience. "Please continue, Mr. Prudhomme."

"I was bringing a present for my nephew. He was only six months old. It was a toy to hang over his cradle..." Prudhomme paused in angst, and let emotion pass "I was only a few houses away when I saw someone leaving my brother's house. A man, who passed by me. I arrived and found the door open..."

Stephanie approached the witness, who had stopped again. "Mr. Prudhomme," she said coldly, maybe too coldly, "was it the man of the photograph?"

"Yes..." the witness stammered.

"So..." she addressed the jury. "Mr. Prudhomme found his brother, sister-in-law and nephew murdered. And it was the man of this photograph... the same man my client allegedly murdered!" she spoke firmly.

"Your Honor..." Adams rose "It is irrelevant."

"No, it is not!" Stephanie countered fiercely. "The man was a dangerous and violent man. He could have induced my client into the battle!"

Dylan stared amazed. The girl was indeed good. He glanced at his client, who rolled his eyes upon the lie that had just been told, yet with a smirk in his face. Dylan knew that Waingartner was surreptitiously impressed too.

"Your Honor..." Adams pleaded pitifully to the Judge.

"Denied." The Judge mused calmly. Stephanie gazed at Dylan, who nodded slightly.

"No further questions." She said.

Adams stood up and buttoned his suit. Dylan saw confidence in him. It troubled him.

"Mr. Prudhomme... pardon me for asking this question but... did you want the assassin of your family to die?"

Dylan smirked at the seemingly dumb question but his joy vanished when he saw Prudhomme hesitating. The priest glanced away and sighed, as he held a crucifix in his hand.

"Yes..." the witness mused. Dylan closed his eyes in shock. Enough to cast a shadow of a doubt on his entire testimony.

"No more questions, your Honor."

"You are dismissed, Mr. Prudhomme. Thank you." Young farewelled the witness, who walked away gazing at the floor in pain.

Stephanie had barely seated when she had to rise again. She dithered as to what to do, stunned as well by the turn of events. "We're..." her jaw quivered. She was panicked. She placed her hand on the table, seeming unbalanced.

"Your Honor," Dylan rose with firmness in his voice. "We'd like to call Dr. David Bannion."

A bulky, gray-haired man was introduced into the room and showed to the seat. After taking the oath under the Bible, he was ready. Dylan glanced at Stephanie, who was taking a glass of water. She beamed at him and proceeded.

"Mr. Bannion, could you tell the jury what you do for a living?"

"I'm a psychologist." Bannion replied calmly.

"And you were requested to meet my client?"

"Yes. The police inspector insisted."

"Could you share your results?"

"Mr. Jones showed a normal condition, with a tendency to violence upon pressure." The response was brief and detached.

After some technical questions about Jones' condition, Stephanie finished with the client. Adams rose but remained in his place. Dylan feared with reason.

"The defense team paid you to attend here today, didn't it?"

"They paid the equivalent to my fee at this time of the day. I should be at college teaching." Bannion seemed sedated, given the calm response and his unanxious tone.

"Thank you. That's it." Adams sat again.

"You're dismissed, Dr. Bannion." The psychologist nodded and left. "Miss Lancroix, do you have any other witness?"

"Yes, Your Honor. We'd like to call Police Inspector Leigh Langdon."

Silence followed. The door didn't open. The bailiff went to see if something had happened to the other bailiff on the other side. Dylan cursed to himself. Adams had been brief and precise. One simple question to void the unquestionability of their witnesses. Things did not look too bright.

The bailiff returned and he approached the Judge. He mused something. Young's scowl darkened as he nodded. "Miss Lancroix, Mr. Landgon is not here."

Dylan grinned in frustration. Despite being the one that had arrested their client, Landgon doubted the coldness of the murder. Dylan found him an objective witness with nothing to lose or gain upon the innocence or want thereof of the defendant. The panorama was darker now.

"No more witnesses then, your Honor."

Young adjourned. Dylan remained in his seat as the rest rose. Stephanie went for a brief exchange with Adams. Waingartner leant in to speak to him.

"We're fucked, aren't we?"

The accused man broke into a mad giggling. Dylan found the insanity of the man unconceivable. He rose silently and walked out. He needed air...


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter XI : TRIAL INTERRUPTED

**Chapter XI : TRIAL INTERRUPTED**

"Therefore, we find the accused Darren Jones guilty of murder in the first degree."

The words of the jury caused a spur of comments in the crowd. Dylan shook his head. Suddenly, almost preternaturally, his client jumped on the table, and guffawed.

"Yes, I killed him! And he didn't force me." He leapt on a police officer that was nearby and stripped him of his gun. The officer was punched down as Jones aimed the gun at the jury. "And you know why? Because there are immortals in this fucking world! People like me who can't die unless their heads are taken."

"Oh God..:" Dylan sighed.

"I have lived for almost a millennia. And I'm not going to be put behind bars by pigs like you!"

"That is nonsense..." J. Clarence Adams sputtered with his usual nonchalance.

"Really? Then look!"

Jones aimed at Dylan and fired. Dylan watched the last weeks unfolding before him in milliseconds. He had returned for nothing. He had failed in avenging Jane. And now the world knew of them. Dylan felt the bullet pierce his chest and...

He woke up, stunned by that dream. He was in a taxi, being driven to court. More than two weeks had passed since the witnesses had stood. Leigh Langdon had been found. Murdered. He had been battered to death in his apartment. At court, however, the DA had lost whatever advantage he may have earned with a silly argument that was swiftly rebutted by Stephanie.

He produced his cellphone and dialed Carla Hayes' number. The machine answered... yet again. She had been absent at the firm for the first days after the witnesses and then a brief note came with Dylan's mail informing of a two-week leave of absence.

The taxi reached court. Dylan paid and eased off. He moved past some reporters and once out of the press harassment, he stood by one of the columns at the entrance of the courthouse.

He pondered his dream. It had been vivid and it added a note of pressure to his mood. Would Waingartner speak if he was jailed? Maybe not. But the other question was: what would Dylan do if he was sentenced to life in prison? Now that he knew where he was, and where he would be for a while?

He looked ahead. A shiny Toyota van entered a garage on the opposite street and minutes later, Stephanie Lancroix, dressed in stunning gray suit and skirt, was at sight. She moved calmly, too calmly. She noticed Dylan in the distance and waved.

He barely raised an eyebrow in response. She caught up with him and noticed his somber look. "Feeling terrified Jones will get life?"

"I wouldn't mind, but he is my client. And much to my detriment, I must do my best to help him."

"Indeed."

Dylan felt an immortal around. "Here he comes." A black van parking and two stocky police officers climbing down. They opened the back door and at least five more officers descended, escorting Darren Jones on his way to trial.

Jones looked calm, almost sedated. Dylan studied him intently from the distance, keen on every smirk, every gesture he made. And he knew something was wrong when Jones started bobbing his head around nervously, as if looking for someone.

So was Dylan. There was another immortal there... somewhere. He heard the screeching of tires not far from there and he tried to spot the source thereof.

It was another van, this time a green one. Four men, dressed in black and wearing hoods and balaclavas, carrying machineguns, emerged from it and started firing at the crowd. Dylan instinctively put himself past Stephanie, in order to protect her, as he witnessed the madness unfolding.

Jones was being taken away, his custodians shot. Men and women were fired at while the man at trial was shoved inside the van. Then they jumped inside and the green van sped away. Dylan thought for a second that he had caught a glimpse of the driver's face.

"I need a car." He said aloud. "Your van."

Stephanie nodded submissively and led him past the crowds. A couple of minutes later, they were on the Toyota van that the young attorney had bought with the monies given after her graduation. Dylan was behind the wheel, steering furiously, trying to keep his eyes on the fleeing van. It headed towards a construction site. Dylan turned abruptly on a street and sped up.

"Dylan!" Stephanie suddenly yelled. "You're bleeding!"

Only then did he notice that he felt pain on his right side. Something less harmful than a loose bullet must have got to him. Stephanie produced a bottle of alcohol from a first-aid kit under the seat and pulled his shirt off to have a clear view of the wound.

"It's nothing..." he tried to talk her away.

"Let me..."

Then he knew it had happened. The pain was gone and so was the wound. Stephanie withdrew, staring in shock at him. He glanced at her, then at the road, and then realized there was no possible circumventing.

"I... I am immortal." He spoke. "I cannot die until my head is severed off my body. I've lived for more than two hundred years. I..."

"Your head is...?" Stephanie's eyes bulged out. "Son of a bitch... so what Jones told you... he is one too?"

"Yes, he is."

"Have you... killed others like you?"

"Many."

Ahead, the van had entered the construction site. Dylan parked outside, at a safe distance. Stephanie's face was filled with horror. "You're no better than Jones then!"

"I'm slightly better," he said bitterly, "but we'll both rot in hell when our heads fall."

Dylan Hunt sensed more than one immortal nearby. He opened his coat and revealed to Stephanie a long shiny rapier. She just gaped in frozen bewilderment. Knowing he was walking into the belly of the beast, he entered the construction site...


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter XII: THE CIRCLE CLOSES**.

Dylan walked inside, his eyes intent on everywhere, lest he should be noticed. He heard an engine roar and he hid behind a concrete truck. The green van speeded past. Dylan guessed that they were bullets for hire, and once their assignment had been fulfilled, they wanted off as quickly as possible.

He drew out the rapier and noticed a large structure built in the center of the site. It was probably the ground floor, soon to bear the weight of several others. He knew he had no element of surprise. He went inside the structure. There was a reception, much like a building, and to its left, in what was a large space, he could see several people.

On the floor, tossed like a potato bag, lay Lothar Waingartner. He was unconscious. Slightly to his left, tied to a chair, was Carla Hayes. Her face was swollen, as if she had been beaten.

Ahead of them, entangled in heated argument, were two neatly dressed men. Dylan scowled at the reddened face of Matthew McCormick, who furiously quarreled with the other man, a man Dylan was familiar with, though never met.

The senator Stephen Branagh. A zealous defender of the secret of immortality, Branagh aided all immortals that needed a change. Any certificate, passport, or even identity needed, he could provide. Dylan remembered McCormick's words: He had been helped by the senator. And Dylan had told him of Waingartner. Everything fell into place now.

"Gentlemen..." he appeared before them parsimoniously.

Branagh glowered in shock at him, while McCormick stared away. Behind them, Carla gazed imploringly at him.

"So, you must be Dylan Hunt." Branagh teased.

"And you must be the senator, you murderous son of a bitch!"

"Dylan, what are you--?" McCormick tried to speak.

"What am I--?!" Dylan spat out. "You helped this bastard kill. How many others were there beside Langdon?"

"You don't understand."

"What is there to understand?"

"Hunt," Branagh spoke ceremoniously, "leave now. I will handle this. I'll finish him so that we remain in secret."

"You will finish him." Dylan mocked. "So you're not only a bastard...you're also a coward."

Branagh's fat Caucasian face reddened. Dylan glanced past them. Waingartner had woken up and he was stirring. Dylan could see his face. He was not happy.

"Think of the big picture. He's out, and we will all continue living. Besides, you despise him. I know what he did to your wife..."

"And her?" Dylan asked about Carla.

"She knows of us. She must die as well."

Dylan could see Carla coldly eyeing at him, then at the floor. Waingartner was beginning to rise. Her look conveyed a message he decoded quickly: _keep him talking_.

"So the end justify the means. Macchiavelli would be proud."

"He was a fine teacher." Branagh said boastfully.

Waingartner was almost on his feet. Dylan smirked. "Well, I need my client back in court, and to that, I'll have to do something I don't like."

"Such as?" Branagh countered.

"Let him kick your ass."

Branagh turned to find Lothar Waingartner angrily charging at him. The German animal punched him repeatedly into unconsciousness. He snatched the claymore Branagh hid within a long coat.

"Don't do it!" McCormick yelled, drawing out a broadsword.

"I'll do what I want!" Waingartner yelled, charging at the man also known as Joseph Wingfield, who evaded the attack

"Waingartner!" Dylan called, stripping himself off his long coat and loosening his tie. "I challenge you!"

Upon those words, McCormick retreated and let the two antagonists face each other. Waingartner chuckled. "You challenge me? I hadn't heard that in almost five hundred years, you old-fashioned puss." He stood in stance. "Get a life, code-eater."

Waingartner stormed towards Dylan, intending to land a chop against his left shoulder. Hunt's rapier interrupted the course of the blade, making the room shiver with echoes. They struggled against each other, sword hooked in sword, steel hitting steel. Suddenly, the German raised a leg and connected his knee on Dylan's groin.

Dylan retreated as Waingartner struck again, this time a lateral slice which made his opponent's left arm bleed. Dylan yelped in pain as he staggered backwards, trying to gain balance.

"Two hundred years, Hunt. You're still a puss."

Dylan roared as he rushed towards his enemy, holding his sword with both hands by his body, its tip down. When he was at the right distance, he sent it upward, intending to drag part of Waingartner's stomach with it.

The claymore blocked the blade and Waingartner made his body twist against the rapier, thus disabling any chance of defense by Dylan, as he made a deep gash in the lawyer's stomach. Dylan cried in pain as he collapsed on his knees, feeling himself almost disemboweled. His breathing was forced, and his heart was about to explode. His knees gave in to the body weight and he fell on his face.

Waingartner stood by him, his sword erect, held by the firm grip of the German. "You're so pathetic. Not even the whore of your wife cried as much as you."

Dylan felt a surge of rage at the mention of Jane. But he could not move. He did not have the strength to stand on his feet and defeat the bastard. He felt the wound slowly healing. His right arm had mobility, he knew. He still had his sword in it.

"For two hundred years, you spread the word that you would find me and behead me. I expected an opponent, not... this." Dylan clenched his palm against the hilt of the sword. He felt sensitivity in his left arm as well. He saw Waingartner's blade rising. "What a waste."

_Now_. Dylan used his left arm to raise himself sufficiently to drag the sword, so that the tip was almost at Waingartner's feet. He struck mercilessly at his left foot. He heard a curse and grinned when he felt the blade piercing the sole and flesh of his opponent..

He still felt pain on his stomach but the wound was closed. He crept away and slowly got up. Waingartner had kicked the sword away but his foot but blood flowed abundantly off it. The brute had no balance whatsoever. Dylan could have finished him now, had he had a sword.

"Dylan!" he heard McCormick call. He glanced and saw the broadsword flying towards him. So did Waingartner, who limped towards it as well. Dylan ran and stretched his arm to grab it. Having succeeded, the momentum almost dragged him down but he stood his ground.

He began a flurry of attacks against the German. Waingartner countered few, and sustained many wounds. Dylan chopped over him, and the German blocked. At the same time, Dylan stepped on Waingartner's wounded foot. The German faltered and that gave Dylan sufficient advantage to land a fierce blow on his opponent's chest.

Waingartner fell wounded and defeated to the ground. Dylan leapt over him, standing wickedly over his chest. The German grinned defiantly at him. Dylan lifted the sword and struck. A single blow was enough to exact his revenge for the death of his wife.

He glanced at McCormick, a glance sufficient to convey a broken friendship. He then focused on Carla, who had born witness to everything, and now gazed lovingly at Dylan, tears of joy in her swollen eyes.

Lightning struck him as The Quickening made him soar. A white mist engulfed him. He felt the rage of centuries within him being erased. It was done. The circle was complete. Now Jane could rest in peace. And he could move on.

The Quickening vanished and Dylan landed harshly on the floor. He painstakingly stood up and limped to release Carla, who embraced him. Together, his arm on her shoulders, they headed outside. Then they heard it. Branagh had regained consciousness.

"I'll handle him." McCormick hissed.

So Carla and Dylan headed out. Stephanie was behind the wheel, and silently observed how the two of them got in the car. Once in, she drove away, as The Quickening was unleashed one more time in the construction site.


	13. Chapter 13

**EPILOGUE**

_A week later._

_New York International Airport_.

_New York, New York_. Dylan had never realized how much he had missed it in his years away. Still, he had to leave. Dylan Hunt II had fulfilled his objective and now had to return to the locker of non-existence, while Robert Spada would be back from his abrupt holidays and resume functions one more time in the Argentinean branch of Hunt, Laver & Johnson.

He had had a brief meeting with Eugene Young. The Judge wanted to know about his father's last years. Dylan lied convincingly, but he knew that deep down, Young did not buy a single word.

His farewells from the law firm had been brief. Roger Laver had awkwardly hugged him, a gesture to which Dylan reciprocated gladly. He had not been able to find Stephanie anywhere. And Carla... here she was coming. She looked radiant in denim jeans and a white tee shirt. Her blonde hair was loose and a bandage over her right eyebrow was the only thing left of the week before.

"So... leaving?" she said, her voice brittle and soft.

"Yes..." he said, his voice cracking as well. "I haven't been able... to find Stephanie."

"She took time off. Personal reasons."

"You think she will—?"

"Don't worry. I'll handle it." They stared at each other and tears flowed down her eyes. They embraced. "You know... I can't stop loving you."

Dylan broke gently and kissed her forehead. "Neither can I."

He wiped a teardrop from her eye and moved away. Soon, he was on the airplane, and half an hour later, he was leaving New York. His comeback had been a mistake. Had Stephanie defended him, Waingartner would not have even considered hinting the presence of immortals. He would have been found guilty and sentenced to life. A swift suicide would have set him free.

But his presence had endangered immortals and it could still do so. The murders of Darren Jones and of Joseph Branagh, both occurred at the same location, had priority among the crime scene investigators. Dylan knew a few of them from the old days. They were really good. Eventually, they might dig up something and show up with questions.

He could not stay, and he knew he could not return... and never he did.

--

_Two days later_.

In her apartment, Stephanie Lancroix worked anxiously at her desk. She fastened the photocopy of the newspaper cut to a sheet of paper and placed it on a carton folder. She stared at the piled newspapers.

News of the last months. All different, seemingly random murders by beheadings. The library online search was efficient. Sufficient evidence to convince an skeptical judge to investigate. And if further proof he or she needed, all it took was a plane ticket to South America.

Dylan Hunt. She had a photograph of Dylan Hunt Jr., stolen from the recent personnel file of the law firm. She put it next to a copy of a newspaper dated May 1982, when Dylan Hunt had won a monopoly case against NADT. It was in all papers, and there were pictures of the attorney who had won the impossible case. And there was another picture, dated 1948, when a British attorney named Paul Bale had won a case against an American shipping company. The face of Bale, obviously, was the same as the Hunts'.

Father and son. The same man. The same murderous man who had beheaded his client. And not only his client, many other men, as Dylan himself had claimed. Even a senator he had killed! She had sworn to uphold the law, and hence she was doing so. She was going to reveal them all, and that nonsensical butchery would be over.

The bell rang. Stephanie wondered who could be calling at midnight. Probably the lady next door, whose cat tended to stray and sneak in her apartment. Of maybe the hippie of the other side of the floor, who eyed her lasciviously every time they met, and tried to hook up with her, once at 4 AM?

She approached the door and repented not having a hole to glance through. She unlocked the door, still safe with the door chain, and opened. She only saw a slim shape before she heard a whistle, felt a seething pain in her throat and staggered backwards till she landed on the floor.

The intruder had removed the chain and was rummaging through her papers. Stephanie felt pain numbing her. Her throat was on fire. She had been shot! She tried to scream but no sound came out. She smelled something. It was... vodka? She strained her eyes. The intruder was soaking the evidence she had gathered with the vodka she kept for occasional drinks.

She saw the intruder kneeling by her and recognized the face. She felt the cold touch of the silencer of a pistol and wept silently. The last thing she heard was Carla Hayes saying _Sorry_. -


End file.
